Languages
by pia-lexandra
Summary: "A lot of things went unsaid between them. They were simply understood. They shared a comfortable familiarity with one another that she could never quite put into words, yet somehow never doubted. Still, in the midst of all that understanding, it sometimes felt like they had very little to say to one another." A Caryl one shot set between S3 and S4.


**Disclaimer**: I own nothing! This story is for entertainment purposes only, and Daryl, Carol, and their adorkable attempt at flirting belong to Robert Kirkman and AMC.

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Different people had different ways of saying "I love you".

Ed said "I love you" with the back of his hand.

When the abuse first started, Carol told herself that was just Ed's way. He'd loved her once, or so she'd thought, how could it be so different now? But it was. She figured it out eventually, though it took her longer than she was proud of. He'd had her wrapped around his finger. But somewhere down the line she realized that Ed only said he loved her when he left her alone, and the only way she knew to say it back was to make sure he never had a reason to come near her.

So maybe she'd been wrong about Ed, but the fact remained: different people spoke different languages, some so different that there seemed to be no way they could ever meet in the middle. Rick and Shane were like that. Lori too, at times. She sometimes wondered how the three of them ever got on before the world ended, and soon concluded that they never really did. The world they lived in now had a cruel way of cutting to the heart of the matter, and some things were just broken to begin with.

Of course, that didn't mean they stopped trying. That was the funny thing about the end of the world. It was cruel, but honest, and that honesty worked both ways. It was amazing how easily some things slipped away, things that were so meaningless in the end, but once seemed so essential: her old Maytag, for instance. She certainly couldn't say she didn't miss it, but she also knew that it was nothing but a luxury, and one she'd gotten by just fine without for well over a year now. And as the superfluous stuff that once crowded every corner of their consciousness faded into nothing, the things that really mattered only stood out that much brighter: things like family, and the gratitude that comes with knowing how easily it could all be taken away.

Soon enough, those that remained found new ways of saying "I love you". Ways that might have been easily overlooked before, but now stood out in sharp relief against the bleak and bitter world around them. Somewhere along the line, they'd stopped being a handful of strangers who'd been thrown together haphazardly by circumstance, and became a group of people that meant something to each other and shared a history together. While time once seemed to race by in a frenzied rush, it had now slowed down to a lazy plod, lingering as one who has no where to go, and each season they endured together seemed like a century. By that logic, then, these were people she had known for several lifetimes - as a victim, a survivor, a protector - and she loved them more dearly than almost all the other people she had known in her old life.

Carol rose before the sunlight. She eased her still tired body out of bed and pulled her cardigan tight around her, shielding herself against the chill. The cell block was still and silent as most of its inhabitants were still asleep, but she didn't envy them. She had always been a morning person, and she loved those few precious hours she had to herself before the others woke up and the needs of the day pulled her in every which direction at once. She was happy to do it, liked to be able to provide some comfort and support to the others. Though Sophia had been gone for over a year now, she was still a mother at heart, and old habits died hard. But even that didn't change the fact that she often found herself rising ever earlier to catch a few extra minutes of peace and quiet.

She dressed quickly and pulled her boots on before making her way downstairs. As quietly as she could, she eased open the main gate leading out of the cellblock, latched it firmly behind her, and made her way down the passageway to the cafeteria. A bluish, pre-dawn light creeped in through the barred windows. Soon the sun would rise and the kitchen would be flooded with a warm golden hue, but for now she would make due in the semi-darkness.

She rummaged about on the kitchen shelves, pushing aside a diminishing carton of powdered eggs too precious for everyday use and a few cans of stewed tomatoes before she found what she was looking for. She peered into the box, gauging whether there would be enough oatmeal for everyone to have breakfast that morning. It would be close, but if she was careful, she might be able to stretch it out for one more day, and then… well, it was better not to think about that. They would manage, somehow. They always did, as long as they just kept pushing forward, and if they could make it through the winter, then some of the crops they'd planted would be ready to harvest. It wouldn't be much, a few turnips, onions, and whatever else had survived the frost, but if they were lucky, there would be just enough for venison stew.

Carol bit back a pang of hunger as she set the oatmeal on the table behind her before scrounging up what little else there was to go with it: a dusty can of condensed milk, a large shaker of cinnamon (the one thing she suspected they'd never run out of) and a now almost empty tub of butter. It made for a fairly good breakfast, but it was likely to be the only full meal of the day. Half a second later, she turned around and nearly jumped right out of her skin as Daryl, not five feet in front of her, sat down at the kitchen table.

"Mornin'."

Once she'd gotten over her surprise, her heart, still pounding, slowly sank back into her chest. How he'd managed to make it all the way down from his cell upstairs, through the cafeteria, and into her kitchen without her noticing, she'd never know. She was still trying to catch her breath when he looked up, noticing for the first time that something was wrong.

"S'matter?"

"Nothing, you just startled me." A worried crease appeared between his brows. "But," she rushed to continue, "it wasn't your fault. I was lost in my thoughts."

"Oh. Better watch that, won't always be me sneakin' up on you."

He rested his elbows on the edge of the table, and sank his head into his hands. His voice was low and gravelly from sleep, and she could see dark circles under his eyes. He'd never admit it, but long watches late into the night followed by early morning hunts were beginning to take a toll on him. She eyed him narrowly before gathering the ingredients to her chest and carrying them to the stove. She could fuss over him, she knew, but it wouldn't change anything. Of all the people in the prison, he was still the only one who could hunt. And even though they had now had plenty of people to take guard duty, he was still up well after midnight checking the perimeter, always with a watchful eye to the woods beyond.

Daryl, she knew, was the kind of person that had spent so much of his life looking after himself that he didn't trust anyone else to do it for him. That, and perhaps it was easier for him to have a reason to stay busy rather than face each night with nothing to do but lie awake in the darkness. It had been months since he'd last mentioned Merle, but she knew too well that only meant that he had now turned his grief inward - a constant companion in his solitude. She certainly understood that. Besides, he didn't like it when she worried after him, so she'd learned to stifle her instincts and keep her worries to herself.

Instead she busied herself with getting breakfast started, and for awhile they let the sounds of her cooking and the soft, early morning rain outside fill the silence between them. Once the water had begun to boil, she poured in a carefully measured portion of oats, stirring as she went. Her back was to him but she could still see him out of the corner of her eye, hunched over his bow, checking that the string was taught, and the sight was accurate. She bit back a smirk as he jerked his head impatiently to the side. His hair had grown so long that it was now falling into his eyes. Part of her wanted to go after him with a pair of scissors, but another part of her wanted to see just how long he would let it get before it bothered him enough to do something about it. If she had to bet, she'd be waiting a long time.

"You know that group you brought in last week?" she asked. He grunted in reply, still focused on his work. "They took up the last of the beds in C block."

"We're fillin' up quick. Gonna have to clear out D block again. I'll see to it when I get back from the hunt."

"Don't worry about that, Maggie and I can handle it." No one had been in there since Oscar and Axel joined them, but the gate had been locked which meant that, after removing the bodies, the worst they would have to do would be to scrub the walls and floors of dried blood and decaying brain matter. An unpleasant job, to say the least, but if she could recruit Beth to help them, the three of them could have it livable in a day or two. "The problem," she continued, "is the passageway between C and D. It didn't matter so much when we only had to go through it once in awhile to get to the generators, but if people are going to be using it more regularly, we'll need to seal it up."

"Shoulda done it a while back, f'only to keep the heat in," he said.

"There are still some materials left over from the gate we could use, but it won't be enough. However we do it, though, it'll have to be solid. We can't risk another breakthrough." Daryl nodded. He was now cleaning and sharpening each one of the bolts and laying them out, side by side, along the table.

"I'll take a look at what we have. If it isn't enough, I'll send Glenn and Tyreese 'round back to see what can be used from the ruins."

Satisfied, Carol turned her attention back to the pot. It was fast becoming a routine of theirs, this little discussion. Ever since Rick had stepped back, they found themselves overseeing much of the way things ran at the prison. Everyone pitched in, of course, but for the most part, Daryl led all the supply runs and guard patrols outside the fences while she managed everything that needed to be done inside, each delegating whatever tasks they couldn't handle personally. It came to them surprisingly easily. They were both people who preferred to be kept busy, and it gave them something to talk about other than things that were better left unsaid - things like fear and loss, and the memories of those who were no longer with them.

Truth be told, a lot of things went unsaid between them. They were simply understood. They shared a comfortable familiarity with one another that she could never quite put into words, yet somehow never doubted. Still, in the midst of all that understanding, it sometimes felt like they had very little to say to one another. Occasionally she would push, ever so gently, against his walls just to see how he would respond. It gave her a quiet little thrill to know that she could make his brows furrow together in confusion, and she would watch with suppressed glee as the color would rise in his cheeks. 'Stop', he'd say, each time with less and less conviction, but she always would. She didn't have the courage to take it any further, wouldn't even know how to, if she did. As two people who'd been shown so little love in their lives, neither of them had the faintest idea of what to do with it once they'd found it, and so it was simplest for them to just keep it "understood". She liked to push, though.

After stirring in the condensed milk, she carefully ladled out a large bowlful of oatmeal. She then pried open the lid on the tub of butter and, with a spoon, scrapped along the bottom to collect as much of it as she possibly could.

"Don't go using too much of that," he grumbled, now carefully reloading the quiver. "There ain't much to go around, and who knows when we'll ever have real butter again."

She paused for half a second and marvelled at the oddity of knowing that soon the taste of warm butter would likely be as much a thing of the past as their old lives were now. Still, she doubted she would've missed it if he hadn't said anything. She really wasn't the same woman she was a year ago, and like her old Maytag, butter was a luxury she knew that she could live quite happily without. She shrugged, and spooned the last of it into his bowl. Daryl scowled.

"What was that for? I told you to save it for the others."

She kept her eyes trained on the cinnamon she was now sprinkling over his oatmeal, stalling for time as she tried to come up with an answer. The real reason was simple - she did it because she loved him. She loved and worried after all of them, really, but it was different with him, and every time he left the prison, she was a little on edge until he came back, safe and sound. She _needed_ him to come back, and if a few extra calories would help him do that, she would gladly give him the whole thing. But she couldn't say that. Theirs was a funny kind of love - timid and shy and as liable to take two steps backward as one step forward - and this thing between them, whatever it was, had always gone unsaid.

In the end, she decided that practicality was the best approach. It might not be very eloquent, but at least it was a language that could be spoken. She selected a clean spoon from the basket in front of her, and stirred it around in the oatmeal to make sure the butter had completely melted.

"They're not going outside the fences today," she answered simply. "You are. You need it more than they do."

She turned around and and set the bowl on the table. Her eyes fluttered up to meet his, and for a brief second, the corner of his mouth hitched up in the faintest of smiles, and she knew that he understood her perfectly. Then the moment passed, and, murmuring his thanks, he took up his spoon and began to eat.

Carol returned to the stove, smiling to herself. Certain people never could meet in the middle, but somehow they always did. She never bothered herself much over the reason, but if she had to explain it, the simplest thing she could come up with was that they spoke the same language. Neither of them were very good with words, but she understood him and he understood her, and that was enough. What with everything in their lives that was now hard - had always been hard - simple, easy understanding was a welcome relief.

The sound of the rain outside had now faded to a quiet drizzle. The sun was just coming up, and long fingers of daylight stretched through the windows. A few people had already risen, and were now wandering into the cafeteria beyond. Daryl glanced their way, and scarfed down the last of his breakfast as she carried the pot to the counter and began ladeling out warm helpings of oatmeal into the stack of bowls laid out in front of her. The day had begun for both of them, and they both knew they likely wouldn't see one another again until breakfast the following morning. He stood, swung his crossbow across his back and headed for the door, his arm just barely brushing against hers as he passed.

She smiled pleasantly to her guests as she served breakfast, but she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he wrapped his poncho around his shoulders, shielding himself against the rain. So what if she said "I love you" with butter and cinnamon. There were worse ways to say it, she supposed, and when he nodded shortly to her before he slipped out, she knew without a doubt that that was his way of saying it back.


End file.
